Turning his back on the circle, Mal-Den surveyed once again the elegant chamber he and Raðenn had dwelt in for – for however long it was. His unease deepened as he struggled to accept yet further strangeness – how could he not have eaten or drunk for so long? How was the wound on his head made to vanish? Was he in fact still imprisoned with his friend and in delirium, soon to die of cold, hunger and neglect? He looked down at his own hands, and pinched one of them hard with a thumb and finger. ‘Mal-Den, why are you doing that?’ The priest jumped; Raðenn was standing beside him, looking puzzled, and also looking strong, healthy, clean and happy – as each of them now looked all the time. ‘I wondered if I would wake myself up – I cannot believe that this is not a dream.’